Tin Hero
by Blablover5
Summary: Somewhere between the stuff of legends and the legends of stuff lies the actual muddy, humorous and gory truth.
1. Introduction

Endlessly spinning as a gazing ball plopped in a bird bath the world of Arda carves a path across the vast black pudding of space dotted with stars, or so some believe (the pudding was hotly up for debate and lead to a major schism as some pilgrims were certain it was actually a plate of potatoes that held the heavens and the stars were a dusting of salt). For others their world is in fact inside out, and to look up at the sky is to look down upon the core. When people try to point out how if the world were upside down shouldn't all of our spare change wind up on the sun they tend to change the subject rather dramatically and ask if they accepted gravity-defying boots in their life.

Some of the older generation subscribes to the ancient theory of a flat disc rotating on the back of some pachyderms and an amphibian. A strange cult, who called themselves Hatchers, spent many wasted lunch hours passing out interesting literature with lots of drawings of flying salamanders to people who didn't have time to ponder what kept the ground in place as long as it continued to do so. This was, of course, widely hailed as a hoax and ridiculed from the pulpit by the guys in 3 foot tall hats because what would the amphibian eat?

Theories, ideas and wild stabs in the dark that sound really great late at night after one had a bit too much from that still she's not supposed to know about that then lose their luster in the morning are all fine and dandy for those viewing Arda from above trying to capture within a small frame all of life teeming below. But for the serf whose entire existence consists of the two acres he farms every day for the Feudal Master until the sweet embrace of eternal vacation, for the kings and ostrogoths warring upon each other and occasionally forgetting who's the barbarian and for the mages more concerned keeping track of their eyebrows the exact shape and nature of their world is unimportant. Certainly not when there is a harvest to bring in, land to claim and spirits to banish then distill.

In fact, in all of its convoluted, bloody history only one man ever stumbled upon the true nature of Arda. Known throughout the Caddatch mountains for his powerful odor and tendency to lick interesting rocks the hermit was studying tree roots trying to determine which was the evil root (there isn't much on the hermit codebook to help pass the time - it's one sentence "Avoid people, also some mushrooms are deadly." The Hermit made due by making up his own games and seeing how long it took until inanimate objects talked back) when a Eureka moment struck him. After changing his trousers, he attempted to share this discovery of why we're here, how we're here and why you get that nasty film on soup with the world, but a few steps down the mountain his foot caught on an exposed root and he met his fate at the bottom of a chasm.

The prelates in the sanctorium have their tales of how the world was formed, when the king of the gods got a bit too excited one day and spilled his seed all over the land which, perhaps because the gods were bored and liked a good dirty joke, transformed into foliage and other helpful plants instead of god goo.

This is, of course, cleaned up for children and anyone else with a child's mentality. Instead, most of the continent intones the tale of how one day Ordren seeing the land was empty and rather dull gave to Mighnot - the god of wind - a single word, which he was to carry across the entire globe/disc/rhombus and call forth life. The old tale, filled with sex and blood, is whispered in back pews and behind closed doors while the prelates rattle on about loving a son that takes all your money and blows it on prostitutes. What is history but a scrubbing of all the good dirty bits so no one cares anymore?

None have since put much thought, outside of late tavern crawls or warm spring days trying to avoid cleaning the midden, into the shape and nature of Arda since. They know their small kingdoms, encircled and enslaved inside an even larger Empire that stretches out across, as far as they are concerned are the only decent parts of Arda where people don't eat other people and wear enough clothes to hide their shame, thank you very much. Why waste such time on useless quandaries when there are barbarians to enslave, teach, kill or sleep with?

Certainly not the gods pantomiming life within their palatial tree house molded perhaps from the minds of people down below who needed something to pray to when it didn't rain and curse at when it did. The dwarves were focused more on the fundamental forces of how much pressure one could apply to a rock face before it got really mad and hit back. And as for the elves, no one wanted to think much about the elves lest they started thinking back about you.

Tucked away, deep inside an abandoned dwarven tunnel long since forgotten by all except for an Ogre and the two adventures sent to slay it exposes the essence of Arda. A cold eye watches as the young man, rising from the dimly lit rock floor, bravely believes he has fooled the ignorant monster into a rather devious trap.

Except, the monster is older perhaps than the very tunnels they find themselves trapped in. Against his friend's wishes the man uses himself as bait to lure the Ogre out and straight into a hastily, and frankly rather poorly dug pit.

He turns back to his companion, having given his all of an "Oh woe is me to be a tasty person trapped under a small rock" routine unsure of why the fiend has not appeared when a fist large enough to crush a grown man does just that. Crumpling in half like a straw doll the Ogre tosses the broken body aside and rounds upon the woman rooted in their hiding spot as her whole world snaps. A determination guides her throwing arm that most would attribute to a god or two, but those who have seen and felt it know is from the knowledge that no deity is there. The dagger slices through the air embedding itself deep inside the Ogre's eye.

The monster's roar reverberates through the mountains exposed walls rooting out a family of griffins that takes to the thermals. Curious, the mother watches through her thick talons as one of those small bipeds always bringing fiery sticks to her nest bursts through the exposed mountain crevice, her arms wrapped around something she's dragging behind. It left the pile, _ah yes another one of the bipeds but looking far less mobile than normal_, away from the entrance and dug inside one of those leather pouches that so nicely line a griffin's nest.

Pulling free the only magical item they ever dare carry, (only an idiot or someone who enjoyed exploding would fully trust a mage) a flask wrapped in protective cloth, the woman breaks the safety seal and tosses the small foaming bottle towards the mine opening as the Ogre's bone shattering howls grow closer. Throwing herself overtop her companion she tries to protect them both as the potions mix completely and realizing they didn't really get on too well especially after what was said about their mother explode in a shockwave that digs deep into the ground rocking it at the core collapsing the mine and hopefully the monster inside.

As the entire continent shudders at the scar digging into its range, a deafening tumult rings out as shockwave meets tin helmet meets eardrums. Even with her ears deafened from the cacophony and her face buried deep in his broken chest, his final rattling breath roars across her heart. The woman, a piece of granite in the salad of life, truly falls for the first time and wonders how can Arda keep turning, how can the sun keep rising when her whole world breathed his last.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_Some 35 years, a few revolts, one successful coup, a generation of adorable and deadly griffins and one comet later. So much of the land has changed in that time, passed from Lord to Emperor to King, yet people as always remain the same. _

"Lords, Ladies and peasant muck I come before you with news so grave it shall shatter your very bones and possibly your skin," the speaker paused afraid his metaphors were mixing again. "Our land has fallen under the shadow cast by the most foul creature to ever befall time," the wind carried these dire words to the modest crowd assembled beneath the broadcasting balcony.

"Eh, what's he saying?"

"Dunno. Sommthin about land."

"Harvest isn't for another three months."

"SPEAK UP!"

"As I Was Saying," the herald flailed his arms dramatically in the wind from atop the town's tallest building, Crazy Larry's Seed and Fertilizer store (it was trying to sow the seeds in his armpits that tipped everyone off to how crazy Larry really was), which completely destroyed whatever narrative his dramatic reading had going. "The King Has Decreed That Anyone Who Slays the Ogre Will Get A Thousand Gold Coins And That Jewel Of The Kingdom's Crown, That Which is Most Precious To Him. . ."

"I just got over the clap, I don't be needing a second go around thanks to his whore!" The modest crowd broke out into a few giggles for decorum. From the back, cries of "hot pies" rang out even though the pie peddler was laid up with gout. That was no reason for a few good samaritans to miss out on a golden opportunity to inflict his misfortune on others.

The man in scarlet tights, half cape and cod piece shaped like an actual fish (he had a depressing herring addiction) thought to himself, if only he hadn't of given up on his Heraldry dissertation he could be in Avar crying the daily noon instead of telling bawdy stories and playing his lute for limericks for a few quid in this backwater hellhole. "He will Bestow His Beloved Princess Anne!"

A figure carefully extricated itself around the bags of alfalfa seed and high octane porcine feces and climbed out onto the balcony. The wind, which threatened to knock the Heralds requisite puffy hat onto the weathervane three stores down, blew her skirts lustily in the wind. The princess gave a small wave and smiled crookedly as the crowd turned deathly quiet. Each peasant's face, covered in half of what her delicate senses deigned to pretend was some magical farming elixir and not the goodies from the backend of an animal, stared up at her expectantly. For a second her resolve wavered when faced with dozens of eyes contemplating her every move, just as she turned to the herald a lone voice cried out, "I love you!"

This shattered the spell, and whatever trace of modesty she'd held onto despite the years of always having someone there to take care of her every whim and bowel movement vanished as the courtly manner of a woman who knew how to use her full arsenal to get what she wanted broke free.

"My people," her soft voice rang across the silent courtyard reaching into every heart and, for some, parts lower, "we are at a grave time. A pair of huntsmen spotted an Ogre a few nights back near our beauti . . . fair town."

"So what? Call the exterminators, ha ha ha," the lone heckler was shushed and pushed to the back. Accepting that he'd never make any coin that day, the town's heckler set off to the pub with the pie salesman having gotten peckish limping behind him.

The princess let a small frown imperfect her beauty, "It's not your common Ogre, either. This one has already destroyed both Gwaren and Soldern before setting its sites upon us. No Ogre removal service is willing to touch it declaring it grandfathered in and our insurance won't cover him under act of gods, probably one of the uglier ones. We need you," outstretching her arms to the gathered handful of artisans and cobblers who took their lunch break outdoors, she smiled warmly upon the best a long lunch hour had to offer, "only you can save us all from this brute."

A mumbling gurgled through the crowd, as people took into account just how great of a metropolis Soldern was (it had a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker all in house at their new super center) and just how large some of the men on their exterminator squad were (Tony had thrice been confused with a Troll and had billy goats sent to his house each Modranicht**)**. Here the Monster Removal Service was half staffed by Rodney who spent most of the time on his courier job to Miss Erlana's house.

Realizing she was losing the crowd the Herald stepped in, plucking forth from all his training, fire and vigor rolling underneath his words to create the best rousing speech the world had ever known. "A hem, Gentlefolk!"

Anne put a gentle vice grip on his shoulder and shook her head, no man in a floppy hat and velvet skirt was going to take away her big moment, "And the man who slays the beast shall have my hand."

"Whatcha mean? Like to keep on the wall or something?"

Gods, the sheep had more brains than the people here, "In marriage, he shall have my hand in marriage."

The crowd erupted into wild applause as every man contemplated having the heavenly creature straddling a bag of hog shit as his wife, especially the married ones. The women were thinking about all the coin they could get from the wedding itself, after all could you really call it a marriage without matching credenzas covered in sequins? Everyone seemed to have forgotten the stipulation that a giant city-crushing Ogre needed to be dead as part of the bargain.

"We haven't had one of them traditional dead Ogre weddings in years. I hope they toss the entrails. My mam caught them one time and was wed the year after."

"But I don't want to wear tights if I have to be a prince," a teenager yelled.

"If you's to be prince you'll wear them tights and be damn proud," his mother, who he forgot also snuck out early for a smoke break, scolded him back.

"What if the Ogre dies o' natural causes?"

The Herald squinted his eyes trying to make out the voice, "Like a heart attack or something?"

"Yah! Or he eats one o' George's pies!" This brought more laughter and a few people rubbed their foots in sympathies, no one would wish one of George's pies on anyone no matter how tall or monstrous they may be.

"In the event that the Beast is slain by natural causes then, we'll," he looked to Anne who shrugged her shoulders. The idea of an Ogre having a heart attack hadn't occurred to them, "the first man to bring back its hand will get Anne's." That seemed simple enough, a hand for a hand; even these rubes could understand that.

What the King, who hadn't stepped foot outside the palace in years and only spoke a few curt words (generally keeping to "we are not amused"), failed to realize was the tenacity and creativity of simple folk who after harvest had a long dull winter to plot.

But the herald, having been born in a barn himself (it was not all it was cracked up to be. The cows licked him clean and a noticeable lack of shepherds or magi came to acknowledge his birth) had a pretty good idea what was going through each brain, "And we'll know if you kill the right Ogre or not because this one only has one eye!"

"Is no problem, we'll just find some smaller two eyed Ogre and poke one out. You'd never know the difference," the teenager jeered back as his mother slapped him upside the head with her basket.

"Ya idjiot, you don't tell the man."

More half thought deals and attempts to hammer out the fine details flew back and forth at the Herald who never having faced the litigious mind of a farmer stood slack jawed gasping for air. The King would have his head if he learned of half the things the man who ranked below jester was agreeing to.

At the back of a crowd, stuck behind Tall Jim and Short Stanley (the tallest man in the county – small towns have an interesting sense of humor, which means not funny at all) struggling on his tiptoes, Jack the Farrier's son dreamed of a petal strewn day; him in his best, no his father's best, well he'd probably order new clothes, and waiting for him at the end of the aisle, a vision of golden purity. His mind skipped through the traditional drunken fight over which side of the family got screwed over in the seating arrangement and how they're lucky Gram survived to see this even though she's too evil for the reaper to claim and "Ooh can you believe Sandy had the audacity to wear white" to the kiss. As he was leaning in, breathing in the Princesses bright lilac scent a rough hand clasped him on the shoulder.

Turning in the grasp, he was greeted by what some would graciously call a mouth, though one is usually defined as having some degree of teeth. "You're not thinking of killing that Ogre, are ya kid?"

Jack sputtered, trying to avoid the smell of rotting potatoes all these old dried up men who wandered the town square emitted. No one was entirely sure where they came from, or what they did, but everyone agreed the place would be a lot emptier without one to hit you up for a pint or a half a pie.

"Nah," a second old man appeared, even more mummified than the first, "what we needs is one of them old Ogre slayers. Remember Krankor the Barbarian?"

"I heard he killed three Ogres and one Wyvern in a single night before his ale got cold," the man released his grip so Jack could turn away to stare back at the princess who was coquettishly waving her handkerchief at the crowd. Despite his attempts, nothing could silence the musty voices and tales of men no one knew from digging into his brain.

"Didn't he die?"

"Oh yeah, most of them Barbarians either succumb to rotgut, a beasts stomach or the pox," the two giggled at nothing.

"Isn't there one near here, Craper, Carser, Casser, sommthin' like that? Gave up all that stabbin' and bumpin' uglies for a life in the doldrums of farmin," he cackled at his oh we'll call it a joke and flashed his few remaining teeth.

"Down by Blaten way. My Ness says she see's 'em sometimes gettin' supplies."

The words washed against Jacks brain like the ocean against the shore, his eyes, ears and other organs were all for the princess who upon realizing she still had a rapt audience was singing the most interesting version of "Little Brown Thing that May Hold Liquid Sometimes," he'd ever heard. The fact that she only knew 10% of the lyrics and none of the melody made it all the more fascinating.

At the height of a crescendo, she let the music take her and tossed her kerchief out into the crowd. A rather ornery gust of wind picked it up and skimmed it across the heads of all the young men scrambling on top of each other to try and win her favor (or for one old Lady who was prodigious with the hat pin, because she could). Just as Tall Jim bent over thinking he saw a silver the wind deposited the lacy booger catcher upon Jack's shoe.

It was still warm from her hand, and holding it aloft the princess gave him a small wave and blew a kiss before vanishing back into the store.

"Well, it was nice knowing ya kid," the rotten potato gave him a pathetic look before vanishing off into the crowd with his friend still cackling.

Something stirred inside Jack, something he'd never felt before in his 20 or so (he wasn't so good at numbers) years upon this dirt. Burning from ear to ear, Jack vowed that he would slay the Ogre, save his village and win the fair princesses heart (and hopefully everything else attached to it).


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Two weeks passed eventfully before Jack found himself as fully lost as one with their eyesight can be wandering aimlessly across the open green fields of almost but not quite familiar farmland. His horse was weighed down with everything he owned: a whet stone, a small paring knife dug from the bottom of the cutlery drawer he thought was a dagger, a basket with a half loaf of molding rye bread and a few handfuls of highly poisonous berries, and Bruce's Guide to the Wilderness cracked, yellowed and missing about 20 pages. Bruce never did get around to writing about the importance of large leaves when nature came calling.

In retrospect, maybe he should have taken his father's map while he was at it.

After the Ogre rally (Ogrestock '99 as it was coming to be called among the locals), Jack found his once lost and bewildering steps held purpose. His brain, typically used to keep his head warm was having actual thoughts and even, gods help him, ideas. He wasn't as handsome as his eldest brother was, his mother once favorably compared Jack to a plucked goose, and he wasn't as smart as his younger brother who had already streamlined the family business to where only two people were needed to run the forge and barn. No one expected anything from Jack except for a slightly warmer space at the kitchen table and it showed in everything he did.

It was a week and a half since that warm spot vanished and his family had yet to notice. His brothers were too busy trying to carve a life for themselves and fighting for a claim to a larger piece of the pie from each other. Jack tried to say goodbye to his mother but she was involved in one of her "heated discussions" in the form of flying molten iron with one of her distributors. If she weren't the best blacksmith for miles no one would work with her, though gods help them if they ever said that to her face.

The only family member he didn't find either courting three women, cooking books, plotting a murder, or trying to smash kneecaps with a hammer was his father. He sat in the barn, about the only place he felt safe from the rest of the family, brushing down one of the local Baron's horses cooing in its ear a song Jack knew from childhood.

"Goin' somewhere, my boy?" his father asked as Jack pulled Horse (Jack was very black and white when it came to naming things. He had an imaginary friend as a child he named "invisible" who eventually wandered off after getting bored with Jack) out from his stable and began to ready him for the saddle.

"I have something I need to do. Something important," Jack's voice had an edge to it his father had never heard before. This worried the old man, who despite the fact he loved the boy bless him, thought of his middle son as a wet paper bag stuck to a shoe. He stopped brushing, waiting to see if Jack would continue.

"Well, you know yourself best. Keep yourself warm," his father motioned to a moth chewed scarf dangling off a tack hook. Despite the squelching heat of late-Summer Jack took it, always doing as he was told.

"I might be gone for a while, Dad," he wound the scarf around his hands almost tying himself to the wall.

"I see," the whistling began again.

"If for some reason I don't come back," Jack started, but was cut off by the icy glare of his father.

"Nonsense, you're my boy. I know you'll be back. Oh the ol' mare wins but only if you sin. . ." His father turned back to the horse, the discussion closed.

Jack tied the princess's handkerchief, his talisman, to Horse's bridle and set off for lands unknown. Though, seeing as how the furthest Jack had been out of town was to Old Ellie's shearing hut two miles down the road that could be said of just about everywhere.

That was a full belly, a warm set of clothes and a horrible sense of direction later. Jack found himself wandering around the pastoral landscape looking for the farm of the great slayer that the old tales and older men celebrated. He hadn't heard or read of this Casser but the kindly gentleman in the tavern had been very encouraging about finding his farm and learning the skills of Ogre slaying. Jack tried to explain how he merely planned on bringing the hero back to do the actual slaying but the man made a rather strange series of gurgling noises from atop the table so he thanked him again and took his leave.

He'd been wandering for the past three days after, by a chance encounter, meeting up with the rotten potato man's niece and getting vague directions South. Luckily, the weather kept mostly nice and despite the uncertainty of everything in his life, Jack rarely let anything bother him much.

People often said he had the spine of a sponge and the mental capacity of the dishwater (though it tended to come out "he's got all the brains of a water bin!"). A sponge gave up easily under pressure yet it always sloshed back into shape. But even he was starting to get annoyed at the same tree shaped like something rather rude taunting him on his third trip around.

A merchant's cart covered in all manner of paraphernalia that clanked when hung upside down rattled from the crossroads and, never having been told the man code, Jack stopped to ask for directions. "Excuse me sir, do you verily know whither I may find a farm?"

"Verily? Who says verily?" a brown fuzzy head underneath a fuzzy hat poked out through an overcoat (which some would not be hard pressed to describe as fuzzy). The cart clattered and banged to a stop as the fuzzy thing froze, "You're not a bard are you?"

"No," Jack wasn't sure which gap in the brown to stare at and alternated.

"Can't stand bards, always going on about things that never happened."

Jack, putting no mind to the fuzzy things rather philosophical take on tales tried again, "Perchance, may you help?"

"Are you sure you're not a Bard? They're always using that queer language," The brown thing, despite not having eyes glared down, "No one uses perchance."

"I'm sorry, my name is Jack and I'm the Farrier's son," he wasn't sure how to announce himself, everyone in town knew about Jack. Generally in an 'Oh that was Jack you asked to hold your end of the rope, well no wonder you fell down the well' manner.

"Much better, Jack. No bard would dare call himself that. It'd be all Rufus or Julian or sommthin' like that. You don't have any bells in your hat do you?"

Jack shook his head, displaying a noticeable lack of any bells smuggled in case he was an undercover Bard, "No, I'm after this farm. I got horribly lost. I've been looking for Drummond way but there's no sign."

"Oh, that," the brown thing looked relived in as much as a pile of hair can and dug through its pockets, "it blew over goin' on oh 10 years ago now."

"And no one thought to replace it?"

"Why? Everyone who lives here knows exactly where they're going," after placing a cigarette somewhere in the depths of brown, the merchant began digging again, "Now, what was you looking for?"

"A farm."

"Yer gonna have to be a bit more specific young man, there's nothing but farms here. Some of it actually owned by people," he lit his cigarette up, finally giving Jack an orange flickering glimpse of human features beneath the brown. Silently, Jack sighed out of relief, for a minute he thought he'd been talking to one of the many fantastical creatures his mother had no truck with. Of course, she hated everything up to and including rabbits and kittens. If it weren't human, his mother despised it with all her being. She was a raging speciesist, though most humans who lived in fear of being hunted, tortured or eaten by any random creature were.

"Hang on, the girl wrote it down," Jack dug through his pockets and with a practiced tongue said, "I'm looking for Far-gur-e-l-ar Farms."

"Now what's a nice boy like you want to go to Fargarlar for?" a smile cracked beneath the intermittent glow, "Oh I see, pretty girl to rescue ammiright? Something big and scary to kill? So's you want someone to train you to kill it, a famous slayer of dragon's maybe?"

"Oh no, I was hoping to convince him to come and kill the ogre."

"And get what out of it? A simpering girl? Some hole in the wall's gratitude?"

"The king is offering gold," he couldn't remember how much, any time he tried to imagine that day his face flushed and his pants got a little tighter.

"Psh, have to be a kingdom's worth to get Cas the Destroyer out of retirement," the brown thing waved out his cigarette and tossed it into the back of his cart before lighting up another.

"Look, please. I have to save my home and win my lady's heart. . ."

"Yeah, yeah yeah. Heard it all before. Oh and you forgot the 'get revenge on your families murderers,' always important in those old tales. Look, I likes ya so I'll help you find the farm but I'm tellin' ya Cas won't move for a mountain of coin. You take this road and when you get to the end take a left, that's the one where your thumb makes an 'L.' Know what an 'L' is right?"

Smiling wide, Jack pulled Horse towards the road, "I thank you sir from the bottom of my heart. I hope that one day we may meet again so I can repay you for your kindness."

"You gots to stop reading adventure stories boy, don't no one talk like that," the merchant tossed down his second half finished cigarette and started up his cart, "She is going to eat you alive."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The sun streaked boldly across the land as Jack stumbled across the farm. Despite all common sense (of which Jack was born fully lacking) he'd ridden the entire night through the dark foreboding forest half singing quarter remembered songs and when the words weren't coming always falling back on "tip me over and pour me out."

Even the creatures of the forest felt sorry for the boy belting inn songs of which he didn't understand even the first entendre loudly through the dark night and clomping over fallen bracken that would have snapped the ankles of any other man or horse. Jack's entire life operated upon a string of good luck, bottomless patience, and the ability to be incredibly pathetic without realizing it. So, carting a head heavy with sleep and a belly full of highly poisonous berries and amazingly their only known antidote a sprig of mistletoe that caught in Jack's throat as he traipsed through the forest, the mighty adventurer was in high spirits as he spotted a small farm beginning its morning dance.

Even as a spec in the distance, loud crashes and incoherent screaming drifted on the wind to Jack's ears. Well no one ever said a great Barbarian was much of a morning person. In fact, it seems to go against their very idiom. If it weren't for the increasing levels of swearing and groaning coming from the barn this land would be idyllic. Pastoral poets would break into tears tearing at their breasts and other various attempts at scenery chewing to capture its true beauty in verse. Jack, on the other hand, noticed that they had both brown and black cows.

He aimed Horse towards the farmhouse, eerily silent, hoping to find someone inside with a bit cooler head than the voice threatening to damn for all eternity some inanimate object. Didn't they have squires or something to handle all the boring day-to-day needs? Knocking on the almost quaint front door produced nothing but silence, Jack tried once more thinking the squire was busy doing squirely things and perhaps a bit hard of hearing.

"Eh! What are you on about?"

Jack spun about to find a young woman cradling a load of firewood, staring at him accusingly. Her dark features and raven hair put Jack in mind of the old bedtime horror tales of night spirits that would claim young boys who got lost in the woods at night. The type that as they got older encouraged boys to hope they managed to get lost.

"I . . . I'm sorry. I must be at the wrong house. I was just, I should be going," Jack bumbled down the stairs, his boots sliding off the bottom step as he teetered to keep from falling to the ground.

Slogging the wood down, the girl wiped her hands off on her apron and stared Jack up and down, taking in his homemade scabbard (a few bits of old leather from a broken rein) his armor (dinner plates that he'd tied together and his mother would kill him for if she noticed missing) and his trusty steed nosing through the wood pile looking for something good. "Why're you wearing that scarf? It's goin' on hellfire by now?"

Jack tried to smoothly pull the scarf from his neck, managing to wind it tighter. He gasped for air but the girl ignored it as her face lit up and her guarded marble face softened, a few smile lines turning her human. Between haggard breaths, Jack realized that this girl no longer about to drag him off to her lair and eat his fingers was gorgeous, and aside from the hair color, skin, height and age could be his beloved Anne's twin.

She smiled wide, Jack was sure his knees were going to buckle, "You're an adventurer aren't you? Come to learn to slay the great beast and win your lady love's hearts."

"Don't you mean heart?"

"You're only getting one lady out of it? Look at you," Jack started to lower his eyelids to look at himself but caught the woman's ample assets and froze unsure of how to pull his eyes away without looking like a lecher. She chose to ignore this faux pas, "You're covered in the forest. Have you been riding all night? Oh, I must get you all fed and washed up. I can help with both," she lowered her eyelids, her coquettish act broken by the fire burning beneath. Jack was certain he was going to pass out this time.

"PENNY! WHERE DID YOU GET TO NOW?" the bellowing from the barn broke the spell of young hormones, "THE CALF IS DOWN BUT I NEED A BUCKET OF WATER TO WASH THE CRAP OFF!" Sweat poured off of Jack as he realized the voice wasn't getting louder but closer.

The cow shit covered barbarian turned the corner and Jack met for the first time what he envisioned would be his beloved mentor and best friend. He'd spent most of the trip dreaming up an iconoclast to shake the very foundations of society now a wise old man, crippled from fights but still wiry and agile who would reprimand Jack lovingly and over time they would become as father and son to build him into a stronger man.

Instead, a robust northern woman, her farm friendly frame covered in a leather apron atop a pair of unwomanly trousers, approached holding her shit-covered hands out in front of her. Her hair was cropped short, and she moved with a steadfastness that belied the anger building inside as she approached her farm hand flirting with a young moron.

"I'm sorry, Mistress. I came to fetch the water but I found this man instead," Penny slightly curtsied eliciting an eye roll from the large woman.

"Well, unless you think I should wipe my hands off on him do you think you could go get one now?" a small squeal escaped Jack's lips at the idea of being used as a towel, but he was subdued as the thought that this must be his future mentors wife entered his mind. Adventurers could have wives, right, "What's he doing here anyway?"

"Oh it's so romantic, he's come to learn how to slay something from the world's greatest hero and win his ladies heart."

The woman snorted. Realizing that no water would be forthcoming till she got rid of this guy she rubbed what little shit off she could on the ground and stuck her hand out, "I am Cas the Barbarian, nice to meet you."

The combination of lack of sleep, dark forest spirits, the stench of shit and a stomach rolling as two poisons tried to cancel each other out finally laid claim and Jack crumpled up his head smacking against the steps. The armor dislodged and a dinner plate spun out down the road.

"Hey, kid. You all right?" Something nudged him in the ribs.

"I got some water."

"I really don't think he needs it. There, his eyes fluttered. He should be fine in a few minutes."

The voices drifted in and out of inky blackness. Through closed eyelids, Jack could make out two tall black figures standing above him debating his fate. Strange, he never put much stock in the old sanctorium's tales of a soul being measured before passing on to the gate's of Everal for the second test as being true. The urge to close his eyes tight and wish he were back home surprised Jack so much he regained conscious. Just then, Penny, in trying to be helpful, threw half of the sudsy water - also filled with whatever the Barbarian washed off - onto his head. Jack shot up, shaking and sputtering the water out of his nose, the closest he'd come to drowning in his life.

"I told you, now go and get a towel so he can dry off and then get to it."

Penny scampered off, a bounce to her step that reminded Jack of the schoolchildren when they managed to steal some scrap iron from the back of the smith, a new toy clutched in their grubby mitts. Cas offered him a hand and gently he rose, steadying himself against the wall.

"Here, drink this. Don't worry, it's fresh. You'll probably hear a ringing for a bit but that should pass, the headache will be a doozy though. Your head bounced against just about every step on the way down, but nothing got cracked. Er, your 'metal plates' got a bit damaged but a hammer should fix it right up."

Cautiously sipping from the mug decorated with a pink cat teetering on five legs, Jack tried to check for brain damage. As there was very little for the ground to have damaged and he was a bit unsure how to tell (he'd never tried to count past 100 and his memory operated on more of a spur of the moment variety) he gave up and turned back to Cas, "I came here to find you."

She took the empty mug back, "So I gathered, most people don't arrive on my doorstep as the cock crows to flirt with my farm hand, pass out and head home."

"My village is in danger," he'd been crafting his script the whole night, but none of it had gone right. For starters, he hadn't planned on dirty, sudsy water to be working its way into his small clothes as a woman loomed over him.

"And I am the only one that can stop the giant fire breathing dragon from destroying it and save your lady love who you've never actually met but somehow know you're soul mates and possibly something about dead relatives. Am I getting close?" Jack opened and closed his mouth, his brain searching through his script for a good response, "Look, kid, I'm retired. I gave it all up. No more stabbing giant anythings or rescuing damsels in distress, who probably got themselves into the danger in the first place, stupid dating guides about how to find your white knight. I have a new calf that needs a rub down and a distressed mother that needs watching. So once you're dry, be gone." She turned back towards her barn, hoisting a fresh straw bale on her massive shoulders.

"It's an Ogre." Cas turned back to look at Jack who stared hard at his hands, "It's not a Dragon, it's an Ogre."

"Well, bully for it," perhaps not the best cutting insult but Cas was exhausted after a night up with a breeched calf and a cow who she was fairly certain was a tax collector in another life.

"My name is Jack, the Farrier's son, and my home needs someone to stop a giant Ogre. If you won't do it, then I will."

Cas paused again, slowly lowering the straw to the ground, "What did you say?"

I have no idea, Jack thought, that didn't come from me. Did it? Oh, gods. Everyone's right, I do read too many stories. But his mouth was on a roll his brain wasn't aware of, "You heard me."

Inwardly he shuddered as angry footsteps and rough broken hands brought her face into his, he wasn't sure if he could survive another shock to the system and braced himself but was surprised to find her refrain from punching him in the eye or other painful areas. Instead, she looked him up and down.

"And what makes you think a scrawny little turd like you could last 5 minutes against a full grown Ogre?" there was a playfulness belying her words, almost as though she was enjoying this and hoped he'd continue.

"Well maybe if I had someone teach me the basics," Jack felt like he had the tiger's tail in the conversation and feared letting go.

"I'm guessing 'which part is the pointy end of a sword' will be the first lesson. Look, I'm sure you're very nice and lots of girls will like you once they get to know you but," Cas heard a small squeal and caught Penny leaning out the kitchen window waving a piece of paper. Oh gods, how could she forget? And the fuckers were coming around in a week too, "look, kid, you got any coin?"

Jack blinked twice, expecting a slap and getting a begging hand instead, "A bit yes? My mother is a well known Smith in these parts."

"Room and Board is 20 silver a week, 10 if you help out around the farm. And with your physique you're gonna need all the help you can give."

"I, I don't know what to say."

"You say 'Thank You,' also you ask nicely where the back pump is. You just stepped in horseshit. PENNY! Make a room in the barn, Jackie Fair is staying."


End file.
